Only the Lonely
by Nocturnias
Summary: When Molly goes to see him after the wedding, Sherlock realizes he has a choice. Warning: spoilers for Season 3!
1. Maybe, maybe, don't run away

A/N: this will be a 2 part story. It's been rattling in my head all morning.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or make any profit of any sort from this.

He knows it's her before the doorknob even begins to turn.

Who else would it be? No one else noticed him leave, all caught up in booze, dancing, and laughter. Celebrating their own lives right along with John and Mary. But she did. Because she always saw him.

When she steps into the room (doesn't knock, doesn't call out to him, and doesn't ask if she can come in, very cheeky) he's in his chair, fingers folded under his chin. He opens his eyes and looks straight into hers.

"Why aren't you with Tom?" he asks, hearing the harshness in his voice and detesting it. But he can't help it. Seeing her with him, smiling, kissing, dancing… had all been a bit much with her comment about them having a lot of sex still ringing in his ears.

"I told him I wanted to be alone tonight," she says.

He snorts. "The night of a wedding? You told your fiancé at what is considered one of the most romantic and sentimental of events that you wanted to be _alone_ tonight? I'm sure that went over well."

"He wasn't happy about it, no," she admits. "But I didn't care."

"Why are you here?" he fires off next, hearing the tone still in his voice, making something inside him wince. But it's too difficult, being near her and knowing everything. Knowing there is a ring on her finger. Knowing that he'd had the chance with her but hadn't been ready, willing, or able. And now she is with someone else, _his_ Molly, _his _pathologist. Lost to him.

"I was worried about you."

His bark of laughter is bitter and brief. "I'm fine. Go back to your fiancé, Molly, and stop worrying about me."

"You're not fine. You're lonely and sad."

"And you think that you can change that, do you?" he glares at her, sees her face twist and crumble, and he's being such an utter bastard but he has to do it, if he stops and lets himself stop thinking he'll…

"Go away, Molly," he says, looking down.

He feels rather than sees her lips press into a tight, thin line. "You want to be alone, then? Fine," she says, anger and a hint of tears mixed into her voice. A potent elixir, her tears; one that he mustn't drink. If he does (oh, god, he wants to); _if he does, _he'll be hers forever and he has no right, no right; he gave her up, gave her away, pushed her into someone else's arms and (idiot, _idiot)_ now there's nothing for it.

_All lives end, all hearts are broken…_

He'd just never thought he'd be the one with the broken heart.

She turns away, walks toward the door; head down, body tight with hurt. One more step and then another, he can do this, he can let her leave and then go back to the ache in his chest, the Molly-shaped hole in his heart. It's what he deserves, after all; he certainly doesn't deserve her. She is the only thing that shines in his filthy, tainted soul (well, John, but that's a different sort of shine) and she is as untouchable as an angel.

But isn't he on the side of the angels?

Hasn't he become…not a _good_ man (not yet, maybe not ever but he wants to try for the first time in his life) but a _better_ man? Could he not, perhaps, try to let his reach extend further?

Her hand is on the doorknob, poised to turn it, when he realizes it is now or never. The chance he'd once assumed would always be there, that had been torn asunder from him, was here, now, if he has the courage to make a different kind of leap.

Yes, he is becoming a good man. But not so good that he's going to nobly stand by and watch her with a pale imitation of him that sustained her for some of the time he was gone. He isn't a ghost any longer. He wants to be solid, real, and in her arms.

"You're right. I _am_ lonely. And I'm not OK."

She turns back to him, eyes wary, cheeks faintly streaked with tears. He will drink every one of those tears, if she'll let him; joyfully, remorsefully.

He stands up and takes a step. Trembling, dizzy, mind closed tight and heart wide open. Another, another, until he's directly in front of her.

"I don't want to be lonely anymore," he tells her, hoping she can see what he's really trying to tell her, the words he's still struggling with even though they're the truth: _I don't want to be without __**you**__ anymore._

She stares at him, confused, hopeful; he can see it beginning to bloom in her, despite her wariness and fear; sees it take shape into something so beautiful it hurts to look at her.

"What _do_ you want, Sherlock?" she whispers.

"You."


	2. Maybe, maybe, it's just today

A/N: Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews and favoriting this fic!

Special thanks to the guest reviewer who said "but THIS. /this/ just might be the single most amazing sherlock fic out there." I wish I knew who you are so I could say this properly, but THANK YOU!

A strangled, inarticulate cry bursts from her. She wants to take a step back, but she can't because she's pressed against the door. She shakes her head violently as through to dislodge his words.

"No. No this is some trick of yours, to get me to break it off with Tom-"

"It's not a trick," he says dully.

Her eyes fill with tears as she stares at him.

"Oh, the irony is remarkable, isn't it?" he asks with a chuckle. "You waited years for me to say those words to you. And I couldn't let myself have those feelings. And now that I can, and I do, you belong to another man. If I believed in fate I'd say she was having a go at us."

"Have you been drinking?" Molly whispers.

He shakes his head. "No. Tonight my head is perfectly clear. It's my heart that's been overcome by shadows."

Molly's eyes, already wide as saucers, are ready to pop out of her head. "Since when did you turn into a poet?" she asks.

"Oh, I dunno. That's what people do when they're in love, isn't it?" he says softly. "Get all emotional and expressive? It's an odd feeling."

"Sherlock-"

"You are avoiding answering me, Molly," he says. "I have just declared my feelings to you, and you are giving me nothing to go on." He steps closer. "But we both know you still love me, don't we," he says, and it is clearly not a question.

Molly doesn't tremble so much as quiver; staring up at him with eyes overflowing with tears. Her makeup is ruined, she is a complete mess, and he has never seen any woman look more beautiful. Because she is _real_. Everything about Molly screams trust and comfort and unconditional love and he wants to let that deafening chorus fill his head until he can hear nothing else.

"Yes," she says, drawing a shaky breath. "I still love you."

They both look down at the same time, they can't help it; down at the diamond ring encircling her finger. It's pretty; not too flashy or ornate, straight to the point, just like Molly. At least that idiot Tom had had enough sense to pick out a suitable ring for her, Sherlock thinks.

Molly shakes her head. "You'll get bored with me," she tells him.

"Never," he says. It's not a vow; he just vowed he'd never make another vow. A promise, then. He's not ever been too good with those, either, but this time he will be. "Molly this isn't because I'm lonely or need a distraction. It's my feelings. I know I've convinced most people I don't have any, but you know better. I'd never do this on a whim. Certainly not to you."

Molly takes a step forward. Then another. She walks past him to the table where the Operation game still sits. Turning to look at him, she scrubs the tears from her face and draws a deep breath.

"Tell me," she says.

It wants to stick in his throat, but he pushes it up and out of his mouth. He is so utterly sick of denying, pretending, repressing. Not this time. This is too important.

"I love you, Molly Hooper," he tells her, as solemn and sincere as when he'd made his speeches at the wedding.

She nods vigorously, as though that decides something. Eyes locked with his, she removes the ring from her finger and slips it into her bag. Then she drops the bag and holds out her arms.

Everything is a blur to him then. There are hands, small and soft and warm, and arms that are so thin and yet so strong. Hair, silky and long, and skin that tastes like tears and heaven. She embraces him and everything in his head goes blessedly, utterly silent except for one word, _home; _running over and over in his mind like a benediction.

Somehow they end up on the sofa, her tucked against him and the back, his arms around her so tightly it is a miracle she can breathe. But she does, and that gentle sound and the strong rhythm of her heart give him a peace he has never known.

"Stay with me tonight," he murmurs.

She twists to peer down at him. "Only to sleep," she says. "It wouldn't… anything else wouldn't be right until I break it off properly."

He chuckles at her morality. But he loves that about her; her determination to do what is right, no matter what. It's why she helped him fake his death. How can he fault her for that?

"I'll need time to sort out my Mind Palace anyway," he says. "I have to delete every thought about the two of you having sex."

She huffs a quiet laugh. Then she turns sober. "I'm going to break his heart. And he's a good man. He doesn't deserve it."

Sherlock nuzzles her neck. "No, what he doesn't deserve is you marrying him when you can't fully _give_ him your heart."

She sighs in agreement but he knows it still weighs on her.

"I'm sure I know a suitable woman I can introduce to him," Sherlock tells her. "One that is dreadfully sweet and dull."

Molly smacks him on the arm and frowns at him.

His brows knit. "Too soon?"

"Git," she murmurs. But she presses a kiss to his nose, then his cheek, and he can feel her smiling.

"I'll go see him in the morning," she says.

Sherlock nods. He settles them deeper into the sofa. They lie together, listening to the sounds of Baker Street, wrapped up in each other, quiet and content.


End file.
